Everything But the Earl (The Night Fire Club #2)

Chapter One

Grace Midwood stood just inside the Rutherford ballroom, trying to process what she had just seen.

The man she’d been betrothed to since their youth had been kissing—

“Grace!”

She looked up and saw that her dear friend Penelope Thistledown was approaching.

“You look stricken,” said Penny. “Are you all right?”

Something about Penny’s tone helped Grace snap out of her stupor. “I must speak with you quietly. Perhaps we can go out into the hall. To, er, get some air.”

The Rutherford ball was in full swing. It was one of the largest crushes of the Season.

Dozens of couples danced, a few hundred other people milled about in the ballroom, and mamas were throwing their daughters at all of the eligible bachelors.

The room was hot and oppressive, the sort of space that made it hard for the ladies laced tightly into their stays to breathe properly.

Grace led Penny into the hallway outside the ballroom, where several other small groups of people lingered, having hushed conversations.

“My mother intends for me to marry the Marquess of Beresford,” Grace whispered.

“I thought that was common knowledge.”

“I do not wish to marry Beresford. Nor do I believe he wishes to marry me.”

“Fiddlesticks. Who would not want to marry you? Why, Grace, you are beautiful and intelligent and—”

“I just spotted him kissing another.” Grace opted to leave out the part where she had spotted him kissing the Earl of Waring. That was too much of a scandal to even say aloud.

“That is damning evidence,” said Penny. “Well, that’s simple enough. Tell your father that you and Beresford do not suit and therefore you do not wish to marry him.”

“Beresford may be easily dispatched, but Father will insist I marry someone. Both of my parents have repeated that this will be my last Season.”

Penny nodded. She was fully aware that Grace’s main issue was that she did not wish to marry at all.

She had no interest in becoming the property of any man.

Her own parents had a dreadful marriage, in which her mother often quashed her own misery to defer to her husband, and expected Grace to do the same.

On top of that, Grace loathed the city, loathed the Season, and wanted mostly to have a nice home in the country that she could manage as she saw fit.

She wanted a place her friends could visit and space to work on her pottery.

One of her pieces, a large ceramic vase, sat on a pedestal in this very hallway.

She recognized it, and so did not need to see the maker’s mark on the base, a stylized GM for “Grace Midwood,” though the world thought the sculptor was a man named Gerard Makepeace.

The only people in the world who knew Grace’s hands had molded that clay were Penny and her dealer, Mr. Rhodes.

“Maybe you should marry Beresford and let him carry on with whatever chit he is so enamored with, and then establish your studio in the country somewhere. He’s likely got a country estate he’d let you run.”

Anthony Pearson, the Marquess of Beresford, a tall, willowy man with loose, curly hair that fell to his shoulders, rounded the corner and strolled toward the ballroom beside Larkin Woodville, the Earl of Waring, a dark-haired gentleman who, if Grace was not mistaken, was heir to a dukedom.

Their heads were bent close together as they walked, clearly engaged in a serious conversation.

Then Beresford looked up and met Grace’s gaze.

“Ah, Lady Grace,” he said. “’Tis a pleasure to see you.”

“My lord, may I have a word?”

Beresford glanced at Waring, who raised an eyebrow at him. “Of course. Please excuse me, Waring.”

“I shall escort Lady Penelope back to the ballroom. Perhaps I will seek out the Duchess of Swynford and ask her to dance.”

“The duke may not appreciate you dancing with his wife,” Beresford said.

“Yes, but she is a much better dancer than he is. Unless Lady Penelope would like to dance.” Waring winked and offered his arm to Penelope.

“I should be delighted, my lord.”

They disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving Grace and Beresford alone.

“My lord,” she began, not entirely sure what to say. “I believe we have reached something of an impasse.”

Beresford frowned.

They had known each other since childhood but were hardly intimate friends.

Their fathers had been close friends, and Beresford and Grace had played together a bit as children, but once they came of age, they’d necessarily moved in separate spheres.

She’d liked the boy Beresford—Anthony—had been, but she did not know the man who stood before her now, especially not after what she had just seen.

Oh, he was handsome, all right, in a way that made one forget one’s name, with a beautiful face and perpetually insouciant expression. But Grace just couldn’t picture them sharing a home. She liked him but could not fathom him as her husband.

And yet, at the beginning of the Season, Grace’s parents had more or less announced this betrothal. It had seemed to have taken Beresford off-guard as well.

“I’d like you to know,” he said now, “and I say this with deep regret and the requisite apology, that I had completely forgotten about the betrothal until a month ago when my mother reminded me, mere days before it showed up in the papers.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m a right cad for not properly courting you once I did find out, but, well, the habits and goings on of a bachelor and so on.”

Beresford had always been colorful. Grace didn’t have much patience for Beresford’s rambling speeches right now, especially since she did not know how long they had to speak with each other alone. “I shall cut to the chase then, shall I?”

As if he didn’t hear her, he replied. “You were, what, six years old when our parents made that arrangement?”

Grace sighed. “Yes.”

“And I was all of eleven. Neither of us were old enough to understand what marriage even is.”

“My lord, I—”

“This may come as something of a shock, so please prepare yourself.”

Grace fought rolling her eyes. He did have a flair for the theatrical, but this was ridiculous. “Anthony.”

“That is to say, I do not believe our marriage would be much of a success. And I am afraid that my heart belongs to someone else now and I would make a dreadful husband, so my intention is to tell your father that—”

Grace held up a hand. “Your heart belongs to the Earl of Waring.”

Beresford coughed and spluttered, making a good show of looking offended.

Grace did not have patience for prevarication, either. “I saw you kiss him in the cloakroom.”

Beresford stopped objecting abruptly. “Why were you in the cloakroom?”

“I thought it was the ladies’ necessary room.”

“This house really does have too many rooms.” Beresford frowned and met Grace’s gaze. “I take it you are not going to use this information to bribe me into marrying you, are you?”

“Goodness no. Why would I do that?”

Beresford shrugged. “The curse of being a generally sociable gentleman who enjoys a good ball but also being a man of some means has put it into the heads of many ladies of the ton that I am eligible for marriage. When I told my mother a month ago that I did not intend to marry, she reminded me of my betrothal to you. You are right, it does not make logical sense for you to blackmail me into marriage, knowing what you do about where my affections lie, but… I don’t know.

The ladies of the ton are made of not much more than aspirations and subterfuge, from what I can tell. ”

Grace didn’t know if she should laugh or feel offended. “You are safe from me. Before you rounded the corner, I was just saying to Penny that we are in an interesting situation. You and I, that is. You do not want to marry me, and I do not wish to marry at all.”

“A sentiment I am familiar with.”

“However, I am in a bit of a bind. I believe if you and I went to my father and told him we spoke for some time tonight and have come to the conclusion that we will not suit, he would call off the betrothal with no further questions. However, perhaps that would be hasty, because it does leave the question of what I shall do to avoid the marriage trap myself.”

“You sound as though you already have an idea.”

“Penny suggested I marry you anyway to get our parents off our backs and then continue to live separate lives. You must have a country estate you neglect in want of a mistress of the house.”

Beresford frowned. “This is a novel idea you propose, although it is an unfair one.”

“To you? I swear, if you would like to carry on with Waring, I will not stand in your way.” Grace did not understand it, but she could think of no reason to stop it.

A little smile played at Beresford’s lips.

“Yes, very fair of you. But I meant it would be unfair to you. You are a beautiful woman in the prime of life. I would not force you into a marriage in which your only role is to play estate manager at my country house. I know we do not spend much time together these days, but when we were children, I always knew you to be friendly and kind. Do you really want to wither away in a country house? No. My conscience would not allow it.”

Grace leaned against the wall. “I loathe the city. It’s loud and dirty and it smells.

I long for a country home where there is sunlight and fresh air, where I can walk freely without worrying a carriage will run me over.

My family will not permit me to adjourn to the family estate without securing an offer of marriage from someone. ”

“And I am sympathetic to that, although the vibrancy of the city is the very thing that appeals to me. I enjoy the noise and the chaos. Alas, I will not marry you. But you may be onto something.” Beresford tapped his finger against his chin.

“You see, if you and I married, my mother would start to hope a future marquess was in the offing, and that is pressure I cannot bear. A man of sterner stuff than I perhaps might be willing to enter into such an arrangement, but I cannot.”